


La Saint Valentin

by TheWiseMansFear



Series: FrUk On [2]
Category: Hetalia - Fandom
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-09-19 17:33:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9452429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWiseMansFear/pseuds/TheWiseMansFear
Summary: FrUK- sequel for La Tristesse wherein Francis does Zumba and Arthur is a broody cupcake.





	1. Get Ugly

~February 13th 7:17 a.m.~

     What kind of stupid ass holiday was Valentine's Day? Arthur couldn't fathom it. It was annoying and superficial and he had never taken part once in all his life- before now. "Just get him flowers and chocolate." Mint Bunny sighed, bored of dipsy-doodling about the feet of the mortals crowding the sweets shop. Arthur gave him a glower and then retracted his fingers from the garish heart-shaped box of candy in much the same way he had just done with a bottle of wine in the shop next door.  
    Though they'd been 'together' for over a year it was still hard for him to openly show his affection. Centuries of hiding his heart had really done a number on his psyche. It almost burnt to stand amongst all these romantic twats as they plucked nightmarishly large plush animals from the shelves and planned haphazard sexual escapades in public. If Francis ever pulled a pair of fuzzy hand-cuffs out he'd strangle him with them. But then, the Frenchman hated bondage of any sort, so he was safe from that at least.  
    "You could get a tattoo with his name on it." One of his fluttering green pixies giggled, pinching his rear. "Right here!"  
    He blushed deep crimson and had to leave the shop immediately. "Go away." He hissed at his imaginary nuisances, waving an annoyed hand through the air.  
    "Why are you making this so difficult?" M.B. inquired as the pixies all scattered. "I'm sure he'll be fine with whatever. He can't be expecting much from you anyway."  
     Frowning, he continued down the pavement. True. Francis knew he was not at all a romantic. At least- not in this manner. All this gaudy pink and lace and glitter was horrendous and though those were things Francis' seemed to love, it didn't feel right just buying anything of that ilk.  
     He was about to go into a sulk when he receive his usual good morning text.  
_Bonjour mon petite lapin._

 

~9:03 a.m.~

     It'd been the kitten. The little thing had been curled up on Francis' bare chest, a small white ball of unending cuteness. However the sleepy half-smile on her owner's face had put the feline to shame. That tousled blond bed-head and unruly stubble really suited the older nation and he'd never do more than set the picture as his lockscreen in way of admitting it. Which may have been a mistake as it was frustratingly distracting.   
    "Merci." He muttered, accepting the takeaway breakfast from the woman behind the shops counter, balancing the drink carrier between the crook of his arm and wrist. "Bonne Journée."   
    He'd decided to surprise Francis with breakfast, though just how surprised the man would actually be he wasn't sure. This has become a bit of a habit nowadays. Even though they'd finally expressed their feelings and reconciled the past, it hadn't completely cured Francis of his depression. Arthur understood wounded mentality better than most and took no offense to his lover's occasional sadness. Nothing would ever completely chase away the phantoms and that was okay, as long as someone was there to wave a torch at them. So, often times he would disguise these visits as acts of  whimsy when truly they were made to assure himself that the other man was eating properly.   
    Luckily, sadness was not on the agenda for today, if the music playing within Francis' apartment was any indication. There was a lot of screeching and nonsense lyric, but it had even his feet wanting to dance. He did not allow this, of course. Trying the knob, he found the door unlocked and opened it only to find the couch had been moved,  hindering the entryway. Setting the food in the hall he slithered through the space he was given and paused half in and half out, a wash of adoration and amusement drowning any of his previous irritation.  
     Francis was in the middle of his living room dancing along to some sort of funky workout playing on the telly. The Frenchman, as Alfred would say, 'was killing it', and. Arthur had to be impressed. The skillful and rhythmic hip gyrations and pelvic thrusts were not to be dismissed. He watched unabashed, squashed in between door and frame, until the song ended and Francis wipes sweat from his brow and reached for a bottle of water on the crooked coffee table. He was spotted then.  
     "Angleterre!" The man cried on a panted breath, the sound of which made Arthur flush. "How long 'ave you been zere?"   
     "Since the first 'diddly-diddly." He replied, squeezing the rest of the way into the room and reaching back to snag the takeaway. "I brought breakfast. What in the bloody hell was that any way?"  
      "Zat was Zumba. It helps me keep my sexy body." Here Francis paused on his way toward the kitchen to run the heels of his palms down his sides while wiggling his hips. "You like?"  
Yes. Francis lifted the hem of his tee shirt and mopped his face with it, revealing pale, glistening abs beneath. He liked it a lot, especially now that he was allowed to. "I'm sure there are less absurd ways to stay fit." He mumbled, shoving the end of the couch out of his way and passing the sweaty Frenchman by.   
"Onhonhon~ I zee zat blush, angleterre."   
     "Back off, frog. I only came to have breakfast." He  hissed, putting the kettle on and rummaging through the cabinets. "Where're all my bloody teacups?"  
     "Above you." The older nation replied with a sly smile, gesturing to the cabinet over the oven, clearly out of his reach.   
      He glowered at his partner menacingly, but Francis just laughed. "I 'ad to. Tony and Gil found zem last time zey were here and we 'ad to play tea party. I thought you'd prefer I put them somewhere more discreet."   
      The thought of the trio bad touching his teacups definitely made the idea of putting them up tolerable. However, now he'd have to ask for help to fetch them. To avoid this, he simply set about spreading breakfast onto the table while the water heated.


	2. Let There be Sex

    Francis watched Arthur move around the table, dishing out eggs and bacon and fresh bread; eyed him as he crossed the space to fetch the butter and a knife. He was beyond grateful for his presence. It still didn't feel real, having the Brit here upon his own volition. The way those emerald eyes avoided him was sweet in a way someone who didn't know the man would not understand. Arthur didn't want to ask for help, but he'd need it come time for tea.  
    As he was transferring the food onto real plates like the classy gentlemen he was he somehow managed to knock the sugar dish from the table. "Bullocks." He hissed his brows knitting together as he scowled.   
    Francis went to help with clean up but when he tried to collect the toppled container Arthur swatted him away. "I can bloody do it." He snapped, "Go change your clothes."   
    He understood then. He must be cutting quite the angelic figure dressed in his loose white tee and spandex workout bottoms. "Why, mon amour?"   
    "It's bloody distracting."   
    "Onhonhon~" So, he'd been correct. " If you blush for much longer you may swoon."   
     "I'm only here for breakfast."  
And he fully intended to partake, but not before he satisfied another hunger. "Don't fuss." He murmured, leaning across the mess and capturing his timid lover's mouth. As always Arthur struggled, but only for a moment. When the tension left him, Francis knew it as safe for his tongue to slip inside.   
    With no regard for the spilt sweetener, he straddled the squirming warlock's waist, and snogged the brat until he was a half-gasping against his mouth before breaking away smiling.   
    "Prat!" Arthur panted, pushing half-heartedly at his chest.  "Bugger off!   
    "Détendez-vous." He whispered, lowering his mouth to the Brit's tender neck, he tongued his pulse and nibbled gently as his long fingers made quick work of Arthur's buttons. "Laisse moi, angleterre."  
"Francis."  
     It sounded like a warning but he knew it was a demand. Arthur, he'd come to find, was a bit of a masochist. He didn't like to wait, he wanted to be taken roughly, foreplay be damned. However, Francis personally loved the pleading and the gruff voice in which the man growled his name. "Be patient." He breathed against his skin, opening his shirt and lowering his hot mouth over one of the other man's nipples.  
     Arthur became pliant at the contact, his back arching and his hips grinding against Francis' ass. The Frenchman continued to tease, his already tight pants becoming intolerable. He felt the front of Arthur's growing taut as well. It wasn't long before the Brit was reaching for his fly.   
But Francis wasn't quite done tormenting him. "Facile, cherié." He soothed, capturing the Englishman's hand in his own and pinning it above his head, their fingers laced.   
    "Bloody- wanker..." Was the younger man's shaky response. "Stop playing around."  
But this was what he loved most. He loved seeing Arthur raw and vulnerable. During sex was one of the rare occasions that he got to see the emotions unhindered on his lover's face and he'd be an idiot not to take advantage of such a thing. It was a gift he'd not expected to be granted and he was thankful for every second.   
       Unfortunately, his body was not as sentimental as his heart. Soon enough even his ocean-deep well of patience was no match for his animalistic desires. Arthur was red-face and mindlessly grinding against him and he could no longer bear the prison of his pants. He leaned up and Arthur shucked them downward without urging. "Bon garçon."   
      "Just- shut up." The Brit snarled, yanking free of his own trousers. "Baise-moi."  
      "Onhonhon~ And everyone zinks _I'm_ ze pervert." He snickered, wrapping pale fingers around both of their cocks and stroking them together before his lover turned monstrous.   
      Arthur began to pant and groan and Francis did the same, his entire soul warming with affection as his lover reached up and wrapped his arms around his neck, hands tangling in his hair. He loved it. He loved every moment of this closeness, this intimacy. If he died tomorrow he could go happily and without regret. "Je'taime." He huffed, sliding his free hand down his partner's thigh.  
       The other man moaned in anticipation and Francis needed no further urging. Just rough enough to sate Arthur's issues, he slid a finger inside of him, working it until another could easily join in. By the time three would fit the Englishmen had nearly come undone, writhing and gasping and uttering lewd things- some of which were even new to Francis.   
      It only added to the need between them and he quickly pulled Arthur's hip upward and entered him with a half-swallowed grunt. Arthur shielded his face with one of his forearms and began to pump his own erection as Francis began to thrust rhythmically.   
      "Francis." The Brit groaned, chest heaving as he came, spilling across his own chest.   
      The sight sent him over and beyond the edge of bliss and he too orgasmed, filling his partner to bursting. "Oh la la." He chuckled as the aftershocks rattled through their limbs. "Next time- you can do me, oui?"   
      Arthur closed his eyes. "Oui, bebé."   
      "Good!" Francis slapped the man's quivering rump and pulled out, earning him that emerald glower he so cherished . "Now zen, let's eat."   
      "Bloody git." The Brit murmured, saved from the post-sex stupor he usually fell into.  
       "Onhonhon~ what happened to _bebé_?"


	3. Arthur se Trouve

February 13th 11:56 a.m.

      Arthur sat curled in the crook of the sofa wearing Francis' too big lounge pants and an J'aime Paris t-shirt. All his clothing had been sullied to the point of needing washed. So, now he was waiting. Waiting for the kettle to cry, waiting for his clothes to dry, and bloody still waiting for a Valentine's Day epiphany. It was true Francis wouldn't care what he got him, but he did, damn it. He wanted it to be special. That fact alone was enough to blacken his mood. He didn't know what to do with all these feelings and he was forever stuck on the thought that France could dissolve at any moment, that war would break out and this would all end. It haunted him, plagued him more with each uneventful day. He wanted this Valentine's Day to be memorable, something Francis would remember even if someday he was shoving a blade through his chest.  
     His stomach sank and he was thankful for the rush of cold air that the Frenchman let in as he entered from the veranda after a smoke. "Onhonhon~ mon cher, it's cold out zere!" He called with a grin, the look in his blue eyes jovial.  
     Arthur knew it was a threat, however. "Don't you bloody dare." He hissed as his lover crossed the distance between them as gracefully as a cat but not half as benign.  
     "Warm me up, Arthur." Francis snickered, jumping onto the sofa and forcing his cold hands up his shirt.  
     "Bloody-" Squirm as he may he could not escape. "Ah- Francis Bonnefoy I will- damn it! Frog!"  
     Hands warmed and ego satisfied, the other man pulled away and collapsed against the opposite arm with the a sigh, his socked feet wiggling over to nestle beneath his bum. They were chilled but no where near as obnoxiously icy as his fingers had been, so he didn't raise protest.  
     "Let's take a nap." The older nation yawned, his head lulling backwards, the sweep of his golden hair catching the light and his stubble taking on a ginger hue. "I want to cuddle."  
     "Absolutely not"  
     "Come on, where's ze harm?"  
     "It's never just cuddling." He sighed, grateful for the kettle's shrill wail. As much as he enjoyed it, he didn't need to be laid again today. Then again, he did get to top this time...  
     "I'll get it, mon amour." Francis declared as he made to rise.  
     He'd never thought he'd let a Frenchman make his tea, yet he returned to his comfortable cushion, watched as Francis unfolded long legs and went to do just that. How utterly absurd his life has become. A smile touched his lips. He wanted to stay like this, to remain happy forever, to never feel the sting of betrayal or the ache of loss. But that was an impossible desire. All his demons awoke as the stark reality rallied his apprehension. Why couldn't he shake this anxiety? Francis didn't seem at all concerned. But then, he was an expert at faking.   
     "Angleterre?"  
     "Uh-" He hadn't noticed his lover's return, until the steam from his tea was wafted beneath his nose. "Sorry. Thanks."  
     Blue eyes looked down at him scrupulously as he accepted the saucer. "Êtes-vous malade?" Francis inquired softly, reaching out to push unruly hair from his face.  
     Arthur allowed the tenderness, but only because he was desperately trying to learn how to lower his defenses. "I'm fine."  
     "Tu ment."  
     "Why would I be lying? If I have a problem I just say so, unlike _some_ people." Turning his attention to his drink, he avoided whatever expression his words had caused his partner to don. He imagined it though: a slight frown, a touch of temper in his cheeks only mollified by the concern swimming in his irises. All in all a rather depressing look. He did not glance up to confirm.  
        Unfortunately, Francis wasn't having any of that. The man squatted in front of him and slid his long arms around his waist. He was lucky that Arthur had a gentleman's good balance or else he'd have had a headful of hot tea.  
       As Francis rested a cheek on his thigh, he conceded.  He could do little more. He was already feeling badly and the man was ridiculously plush and warm. "Fine. Let me finish my tea and then we can cuddle."  
       "Je veux youbto passer la nuit avec moi ce soir."  
       "Stay the night?"  
       "Oui."  
       "Well," He hadn't done anything for Valentine's Day yet. There was no way he could stay. "I have a few things to do."  
      "S'il vous plaît."  
      "No. I can't."  
      "Pour la Saint Valentin?"  
      " _That's_ what you want for Valentine's Day? A sleepover?" That wouldn't make much of a memory but how could he say no? He'd just have to find some way to make it more special than usual. His anxiety spiked at the thought of his new limitations. "Fine."  
       To ease his worries and to sooth his lover, he set aside his tea and gently stroked Francis' soft hair. The other nation folded his legs beneath him, settling into a more comfortable position. With a contented exhale the Frenchman closed his eyes. "Merci, Arthur."  
     "Mon plaisir."


	4. Au Revoir

       There was an uproar in the streets. Francis' face was pale in the firelight as it danced wildly in the windows of the flats across from their's, eating up the trellis and devouring everything within. Contrary to the heat radiating from the dying architecture, snow was falling from the dark sky above, likewise Paris too, was falling. In one night, the heart of France had been torn asunder.   
        "Francis, we can't stay here." Arthur begged, grabbing hold of his lover's arm. "The fire will spread."  
        "Angleterre."   
       The soulless sound of the Frenchman's voice was something he would never forget. The way those blue eyes reflected the lick of flame, and the look of calm horror seething beyond it would haunt his nightmares. "We _are_ going." He insisted firmly, tugging futility at his wrist. "Come away from there. Let's go."   
       "Non." Francis whispered, "Je t'aime, mais ceci est au revoir."   
       "Like hell!" He snarled, "We can go to Belgium's house or Germany's. We can regroup, gather our allies. We can still-"  
       "Zey've already taken every city along the Sienne. Biscay is full of warships. Ze channel is probably blocked too. Arthur..."  
       He watched Francis' pale fingers rise to his chest, tears spilling down his cheeks in a sudden, silent rush. He knew that look, understood what the man was thinking.   
       "You've come back from worse!" He shouted, his fear provoking his temper. "So what if they've got the advantage! I'm sure armies are being rallied as we speak. Come with me."  
       "Don't fuss, mon cher." The older nation murmured, taking his hand gently and at last allowing him to guide him toward the door. "I'll go, but I can't leave."   
       He didn't take the time to argue or to question his partner's words. All that mattered to him at that moment was the quickly catching veranda beyond the sliding glass doors. "Do you have weapons?"   
      "Non."  
     "Bloody hell." Out the door they went, into battle with not a damn thing to fight with. Francis tripped and staggered behind him but he didn't stop to coddle him. His fucking city was burning! Why wasn't the man putting up a fight? For gods sake even Francis could be fierce when need be. So why was he quietly sobbing instead? "Come on, Frog." He breathed, ducking out the front door and slipping into a shadowed alleyway. "Paris needs you."   
At that the man quelled his weeping and in contrast grew dreadfully quiet. Arthur didn't slow down and Francis followed behind as they dodged and dipped through the streets and secret ways. It took them a long and dreadful time to reach city limits with fire and death just behind them.   
      Planes flew overhead and Arthur pulled a panting Francis against him. The man leaned weakly on him, coughing and gasping. "Those were German planes." He stated, hoping to encourage his distraught lover. "See? You'll be alright. Alfred won't miss a chance to be a hero. He and Mattie will come and everything will be fine."   
      "Arthur-"   
      "I bet my navy is raising hell in the channel too and I know that there were American ships not far off. Whoever these wankers are, we will send them running."  
      "Half my country- already..." The Frenchman bit out around the back of his hand. "So many dead..."  
       "Damn it Francis! Get it together!" Taking the fool by the arms he shook him hard. "Why are you just-"  
       Blood. He could hardly see it but he knew it by the consistency, the smell. It was on his hands, but why? Pulling away, he took a step back, horrified. "Francis?"  
       "Il ne sera pas arrêter." The man whispered, wiping his lips where the thick substance lingered.   
        There weren't any wounds that he could see. "Where are you hurt?" He questioned, tone harsh in his panic. "What happened?"  
        "Angleterre." Catching his wrists, Francis met his eyes. "France va tomber."  
 _France is going to fall._ The words damaged him in all the ways he'd foreseen, but even with all his anxious imaginings he'd never have concocted the full effect. He could not have prepared. Denial welled up inside him and a great pit of anger opened in it's middle. No.   
       "Absolutely not." He snarled, "That's absurd. You're allies are here. There's no reason that, that should happen."   
       Coughing hard into his palms the Frenchman revealed the blood left within them. "Please don't make zis harder." He pleaded, "It hurts."   
       "It can't happen!" Arthur shouted above the whirring of helicopters. "You can't die when you're sure to be rescued! It doesn't make any bloody sense!"  
       "Does it need to?!" Francis snapped back, sinking to his knees.   
        Arthur went with him, body trembling and mind frantic for an answers. "I don't understand."   
        "Mon cher-"  
        "I mean, even if it's true, Prussia's still around so there's no reason why you won't be. And Japan survived atomic warfare. Yeah, he was bloody sick for a while, but if that's the case with you I can take care of you. There's no chance that you can't withstand a little fire and-"  
        "Arthur."   
        "Just marry me! Then I'll keep you afloat." He searched his jacket for paper and pen even knowing it wasn't there. "It won't be official but I'm sure it'll do in a pinch. We can just...just..." Sobs replaced his ramblings as Francis wrapped his arms around his neck.   
       Suddenly there was a presence behind them and they were both hoisted to their feet and urged toward the German border. Francis stumbled and Arthur supported him, turning to find Ludwig standing there looking grim.   
      "Let's get jou two somevhere safe, ja?" The German stated, "Ve have a camp not far. Jou can rest there. Italy vill take jou."   
      "Big brother France!" Italy wept, appearing from behind Germany. "Ve~ how can they do this to you!"   
      "Now's not za time, Italy." Ludwig chided gently, "Just take zem and be quick."   
      Arthur hefted France upright. "You're going to take back Paris, right? I'll come to help once I get France to the camp."   
      Germany looked away. "Zat is not necessary. Jou should stay with him."  
       "Nonsense-"  
       "Ve don't need jour help, England."  
       "Why the hell not?"  
       "Zey have za Prime Minister." The German interrupted sharply. "And are pushing him to sign a dissolution. If he doesn't comply zey are zreatening nuclear varfare."  
      "That doesn't make any sense! Who the bloody fuck wants France destroyed so badly?!"  
      Francis shifted in his grasp and stepped forward on his own. "Germany," he breathed shakily, "I'm sorry."   
      "For vhat?"  
     There was no time for explanations as enemy aircraft zoomed by, dropping a line of bombs on the city below them. Francis cried out as he watched them explode and Germany pushed Italy toward them.   
     "Take zem!" He roared. "Now! And don't any of jou come back here!"   
     "But Germany," Italy whimpered, catching his sleeve, "What about y-"  
     Ludwig shook the touch off and ran toward the chaos. "Do as I say!" He called back before disappearing into the dark.   
     Francis swayed and Italy grew stone-faced. "Come on." He breathed, dipping beneath one of France's arms. "This is not where he should die."   
     Die.   
     That one word had never meant much to him before, a concept long pondered but never felt. Such was not the case now. Quietly, he supported his lover's other side and together with the Italian, hurried him toward the relative safety of the German encampment.   
     All the way Francis remained quiet, making no fuss over the blood running from his nose and ears. Arthur continued to run his mind ragged trying to comprehend what was going on. Somewhere deep down he felt it was all a dream, and yet he'd felt the heat of the flames and felt the ache in his feet as they trudged onward. There was even that all too real twisting in his chest as he battled grief.   
     By the time they'd gotten him into a tent the Frenchman was delirious and frighteningly light. His skin was translucent, the dried blood marring it the only solid color. They tried to lay him on a cot but he protested vehemently, clinging to Arthur's clothes with all his remaining strength.   
     "It's fine." He breathed, "He wants to be held."  
     Italy stepped away as they sank together onto the grass floor. "I'm so sorry, Arthur." The brunette murmured as he left. "I'll be out here if you need anything."  
     The tent flap fell closed and with it went his restraint. Tears as hot as the fires wrecking Paris spilled over his cheeks and sobs as heartbreaking a bullet hit him. Francis' fingers wearily touched his neck, his face, trying to soothe him but soon enough that hand fell away, too weak to continue.  
     "Arthur..." The Frenchman beckoned on a shallow breath.  
     Pulling the man into his chest, Arthur could do nothing else but weep brokenly into his hair, waiting for him to evanesce in his arms. "Stay with me." He pleaded. "You bloody frog, you can't do this."   
     "Arthur."   
     "Don't!" Francis' bones felt hollow now and there was not enough left of him to properly embrace. "Please!"   
     "Arthur!"   
     "Please, stay!"   
     And then the man fell to nothing. Dispersed completely. Not even the stains of his blood remained. Doubling in on himself and fisting his hands in his hair he bellowed at the ground as madness crawled into his soul.   
     Why!? Why like this?  
    "Merde! Arthur Kirkland!" The world around him shook suddenly and the scenery wavered. "Wake up!"


	5. C'est la Vie

Febuary 14th 3:58 a.m.

         Finally Arthur responded to his name, but the creature that crawled out from the nightmare was not yet his lover. There was a wild look in those emerald eyes, an agony worn on those lips that told Francis this had been no ordinary nightmare. "Arthur," he cooed softly as the younger nation sat up, white as the sheets he was tangled in. "It was just a dream."   
          "Do you have weapons?" The trembling Brit inquired.  
           "Uhm, oui. Why?"   
           Fresh tears sprang from the man's eyes and he began sobbing anew. "I-I need air." He gasped, struggling to free himself from the bedclothes. Francis reached over and helped him, silently following him from the bedroom to the living room. He knew well how this sort of thing worked. If Arthur needed to stand in the bitter winter air for a while to regain himself, then so be it.   
         As the man pushed open the sliding glass door and stepped out, Francis snagged their coats and boots from the closet. "Here, mon cher." He whispered, setting the shoes by Arthur's feet and placing the jacket about his shoulders.   
         The gesture painted a look of turmoil across the man's face and he took a ragged breath. "Cigarette?"   
         Slipping into his own coat, he pulled the carton from it's pocket and held it out to his lover. He didn't make mention that Arthur hadn't smoked since his punk phase or that it wouldn't help his already laboring lungs. Instead he lit it for him and then one for himself and together they stood there leaning against the railing, looking down at the empty street.   
         Now and then Arthur would wince and swallow a sob, but tears still managed to sneak from the corners of his eyes.   
         It hurt Francis to see him trying so hard not to feel. After a few minutes, he could bear it no longer. "Mon amour, what happened?"   
          "You-" Whatever vocabulary had begun up his throat must have choked him because he didn't finish.   
         The aposiopesis meant to Francis that Arthur's hurt must have been deep. That led him to the most likely conclusion. "Was it about Alfred?"  
          "No." The Englishman answered, voice tight with the emotions he was still battling. "It was about you. Paris was burning and... France was dissolved. You were warm in my arms and then-" Arthur ran a hand through his hair and closed his eyes, resting heavily on the rail as his mouth twisted in a grimace. "I felt the blood, the heat of the flames. Everything. I was begging you to stay, but you couldn't. You died, clinging to me and it hurt. It still bloody hurts."  
         Telling the man that it hadn't been real seemed superfluous and embracing him was a definite no go. Francis could well see the fragile state Arthur was in and knew physical contact now would only shatter the walls he was working so laboriously to rebuild. Even if he desperately wanted inside Arthur's heart, he wanted to be let in through the door, not sneak in through the debris. "Do you want some tea?"   
         "Yes."  
         As much as he didn't want to, he left Arthur where he was and went to heat water. He did not doubt the man needed a few minutes alone and he would always give Arthur what he needed, even if it was done reluctantly. There would be time to hold him soon enough, after he was all back in his head and whole. Francis could wait and Arthur was a skilled architect. No doubt his defenses would be back up before the tea was done.   
           He was wrong. Approaching the veranda, tea in hand, he stared dubiously through the sliding glass. Arthur's back was turned but his chest was heaving violently. The last time he'd seen the man so broken was after Alfred had left him. His chest tightened as his heart cried out against the idea that Arthur was so wounded again.  
           "Arthur," he sighed, laying a firm hand on the man's shaking shoulder. "You'll collapse a lung out 'ere in ze cold like zis. Come inside, S'il vous plaît."  
           "I didn't get you anything for Valentine's Day." The Brit confessed, "I couldn't find anything bloody good enough."   
            "Angleterre, what a mess you are." Francis sighed, though he couldn't help a small chuckle. As if he'd want any more than he already had. "I don't need anyzing."   
            "I just wanted it to be special, so you'd remember it if... something awful happens."   
    Guiding him inside, Francis sat him down on the sofa in the spot he always occupied. With a gentle authority he took the cigarette from his freezing fingers, and finished it for him as he crossed the room to fetch the tea he'd left by the doors. "I zink we need to talk about zis." He stated, wishing he could stick to his previous decision not to press the issue. However, he felt- now knowing the exact nature of his lover's turmoil- that it would be worse to let it fester any further. "Zis fear of loss you 'ave, it's not healthy."  
    "We shouldn't have done this. It was stupid."  
    Francis knew what he was talking about, but asked anyway, wanting to hear the words aloud. "Zis?"  
    Arthur threw his hands. "This. Yes, us."  
    "Pourquoi?"  
    "I bloody dream has done this to me. If anything actually happened to you i'd be ruined. I told you before! We shouldn't have started this."  
    Despite the looming break up, he remained calm. "Are you not happy with me?"  
    "That's not the point."  
    "I know zese feelings are frightening for you, but everyone dies, Arthur." Wiping the remaining tears from his partner's cheeks, he offered him the tea. "And zere is no telling who will go first, or why. C'est la vie."  
    "I know." The englishman's face became placid and he took a sip of the warm liquid. It seemed to revive his wits by leaps and bounds. The next time those emerald eyes looked up at him, they were calm. "I know that, but volunteering to be hurt was foolish of me."  
    Francis planted a kiss on his forehead. "If leaving me is what you need, I won't make a fuss." He breathed, "But only if you can zwear you will not regret it."  
    Arthur sighed around the lip of his cup. "I'm not leaving you, you twat."   
    "C'est bon."   
    "It's obvious you can't care for yourself."  
    "Vrai." He agreed, though the fact remained that he'd survived on his own for centuries already.   
    "And you've made an irrevocable mess of me."  
    "Oui."  
    "I could have survived without you before," He went on, hopelessness in his tone as he sat his cup on the endtable. "but now I'm beyond saving."  
    "So dramatic, Angleterre." He teased with a smile. "Feeling better, zen?"  
    "No, I still feel bloomin' awful." The brit snorted, "Like my heart's snapped in two."   
    "What can I do?"   
    Francis' stomach flip-flopped as the man reached up to pull him forward by the fuzzy hood of the coat he still wore. "Distract me."  
    "Oui, mon capitaine." He grinned, "Demandes?"  
    Arthur shrugged out of his jacket and loosened the ties on his pajama bottoms. "Baise-moi si fort que j'oublier mon nom."   
    Francis chuckled darkly as a blush graced his cheeks.  "Tout de suite, ma chérie."


	6. Baby, Baby

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've never heard Baby, Baby by the Vibrators, go listen to it now. Not because I think you'll like it, but because you'll want to know what is happening at the end of this chapter.

February 14th 10:37 a.m.

    The Frenchman stretched and rolled as something soft crept across his bare chest. "Mm- mon cher..." He murmured, lifting a hand to rub sleep from his eyes. It was only a few moments later that he realized that the thing that had awoken was Cheriè, his kitten, and not the feather light touch of his lover.  The little feline mewed at him and, scooping her up, he rolled over on what should have been the exit side of his mattress.  
      This was not the case however and he only remembered it as he landed on his back between the coffee table and the couch. Cherié was safe in his arms, still mewing- louder now- for breakfast. His stomach agreed to her entreaties with a rumble. "Angleterre?" He called, sitting up and noticing the utter lack of Brit in his living room. "Arthur?"  
      With a sigh, he rose, fed the cat and stepped out to have a smoke. Arthur must have gone home. It saddened him, but he'd not push the man to do anything today, not after being so shaken last night. He'd started many Valentine's Days just like this, one more wouldn't kill him. "Bonjour!" He called cheerfully to a few people on the street who had noticed him. "Joyeuse Saint Valentin!"  
      They returned the greeting and went on their way. Snow was falling in large fluffy flakes even as the sun shone down through the gray clouds. He smiled. This was fine. Removing his phone from his rumpled pajama bottoms he ashed daintily into the tray on the patio table while waiting for it to power up.  
Immediately he received a slew of texts. Apparently Spain and Prussia had gone out last night. Rifling through the escalating drunk typos and selfies, he came across a message from Arthur.  
_'Good morning, you lazy wanker. I paid for your breakfast at the café. Marionette said she'd make it any time so just go down and smile pretty at her. Get it to go and meet me at my house. Text me when you're on your way.'_  
His stomach filled with butterflies and his grin widened. Pursing the butt of his cigarette between his lips he replied with nimble fingers.  
     _'Onhonhon shall I bring the lube?'_  
      The response came almost instantly and that was odd for Arthur.  
      _'Not necessary. Just get over here, bloody pervert.'_  
      _'You have very little room to talk, vilain petit lapin, after last night.'_  
       ' _Just get over here.'_

 

February 14th 2:06 p.m

  
      He had not expected to feel nervous, but as he set foot on Arthur's doorstep, a wave of anxiety hit him. Surprises were usually great, but he'd never anticipated receiving any from Arthur that weren't attacks. Not that he thought the man had betrayed him. He simply did not know what to expect and that made him a bit wary.   
      Ringing the bell, he waited.  
      When to door opened Sealand appeared. "Jerk England is in the library." The boy stated, eyeing the takeaway bag he'd brought over. It contained now only half an omelette and a few pastries but he offered it to the wanna-be nation anyway, knowing the food in Arthur's house was less than edible.   
      Like a starved rat the kid snatched the bag and disappeared into some dark recess of the old home. Unbothered by the oddity, Francis hung his coat up and left his shoes by the door before proceeding toward the library.    
      "Salut." He greeters upon finding the Brit in his usual chair. "Joyeuse Saint Valentin!"  
      "Good, you've made it for afternoon tea." Arthur stated, motioning to the chair across from him. "Sit."   
      Francis obeyed.   
      "What's that?" The Englishman questioned, eyeing the medium sized box he was holding. He'd wrapped it in pink paper and tied it with white ribbon. Leave it to Arthur to not see the significance.   
      In answer, he leaned over and places the thing in his lover's lap. "You're Valentine's gift."  
      "You didn't have to." Arthur murmured, "But thank you."   
      "Open it."  
      "Now?"  
      "Oui. Don't worry you won't have to pretend to like it."   
      The man looked skeptical but pulled at the ribbon anyway. Francis waited patiently as he nearly undid all the tape and folded the paper down. Finally the thing was disrobed and the Englishman lifted the lid. The blush that rose on his cheeks made Francis laugh out loud.   
     "Y-you wanker.." The Brit muttered, looking down at the box full of flavored lubes and lewd toys. "This is-"  
     "Look underneath."  
     "Not a bloody chance."  
     "I promise, it'll be worth it~"   
      Francis graciously accepted the molten green glower that was thrown up at him and scooted toy he edge of his seat as Arthur pushed aside the pink confetti and sex things to uncover the true gift beneath.   
      "Francis..."   
      "You like?"  
      Arthur pulled out an intricate teacup with a matching saucer. It was bedecked in hand-painted green flower designs that were accompanied by fine gold accents. "Yes."  
      "It's the oldest one I could find. My Boss' wife had it stashed in a personal collection."   
      "You stole it?"  
      "Mon deiu. Non. I wooed it from her."    
      "Thank you."   
      Surprised, Francis raised his brows. No lecture? He'd it's admitted to shamelessly flirting with his boss' wife. Arthur must have really likes the cup. He smiled. "De rein, mon cher."   
      "Now, it's your turn." The Brit stated, gently placing the teacup back into the box and setting it aside. "I couldn't figure out what I wanted to get you,  and I admit I still didn't know this morning, but~" He paused to smirk and unbuttoned his shirt. "I thought of something."   
      "In ze library? I zought you zaid it would ruin the sanctity of learning if we-"   
      Arthur shed his shirt, revealing a black tee beneath it. Without explanation the younger nation produced a small amp from the sewing basket. "Remember that phase I pretend didn't happen?" He inquired, reaching behind his chair and pulling out an electric guitar painted with his nation's flag. Slinging the strap over his shoulder he hooked the instrument to the amp and grinned. "My gift to you is admitting that it did and that I loved every single second of it. Just like I've love every single second with you."   
      Before Francis could reply, his lover began to play and he simply sat there awestruck, doing his best not to fangirl as a whole new side of his lover was opened up wide before him. The moment he was sure he'd swoon, Arthur opened that smug mouth and sang.  
      "Mmm, you're so pretty~ not to talk to you would be a crime. Aah, let me put my arms around you; just wanna use up a little of your time~ and I'm goin,"  
      Francis sat back as Arthur placed a foot on the cushion between his legs, his guitar resting on the bent knee as he went on. "Baby, baby, baby. Baby, baby, baby. Baby, baby, baby. Won't you be my girl?"  
      A quick kiss was placed on his lips before the next verse began and as it did the Englishmen stepped back again. "Aah, your eyes are so pretty and the clothes you wear, they're so fine. Ah, won't you come round to my place; just wanna use up a little of your time~ and I'm goin' Bébé bébé bébé.  
Bébé bébé bébé. Bébé bébé bébé. Voulez-vous ne pas être ma copine?"   
      He blushed so deeply he felt fevered and clasped his hands together unable to suppress his excitement. Arthur flashed him a debonair smile and finished the riff with every ounce of theatrics and skill he possessed before bringing the act to a close with an electrifying guitar solo.   
      "Well?" The Brit huffed, putting his instrument up and raking a hand through his hair. "Was it alright?"  
      His answer came in the form of a pounce. He pushed Arthur backwards into his chair. It toppled backwards but Francis wasn't bothered and Arthur was too dumbstruck to utter protest. "If you can play me half as well as you can zat guitar, you can top for ze rest of our lives."   
      Arthur panted as Francis slipped his hand beneath his shirt. "I'll need that in writing."   
      A flash went off, accompanied by the sound of a false shutter. They halted and turned their heads to the doorway. Peter grinned. "Kiku will pay good money for this!" The boy snickered. "You'll think twice before freezing me again, jerk England!" 


End file.
